


tangled in your heart

by republica



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:24:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/republica/pseuds/republica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on vikingskink prompt:<br/>"it turns out that the reason that Ragnar+Lagertha can't have any children is Ragnar's fault. He puts Lagertha aside for Aslaug (sp?), and Athelstan and Lagertha go off and have babies together.</p>
<p>And obviously because Ragnar is shooting blanks Aslaug isn't really pregnant.</p>
<p>Also, Gyda and <strike>Thyri</strike> are both alive because I basically died when they did."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (only gyda survives sorry but i have a plan i promise)

Lagertha stands next to the sacrificial offering, the blood drying on her face, and she prays harder than she ever has. _Freya, great mother, please, spare these people. I will do anything for them._

**** Opening her eyes she scans the assembled crowd, silent and watchful. The faces of the people - her people - are sombre and scared, those who are strong enough to take part in the rite.

_**** Do not take my daughter from me, she must live, I beg you._

**** Athelstan hasn’t eaten since the previous morning, and will barely take water. She can hear Gyda’s plea in her mind - but what if the gods find the foreign priest unworthy? Perhaps the incident at Uppsala was a sign they find no favor in him.

**** She must try, though.

_**** And... bring health and strength to Athelstan, for he is dear to me, and does not yet deserve death._

**** She thinks to the metal that the priest wears around his neck, his symbol for his foreign god. If Athelstan is his chosen one, surely the foreign god will hear her prayers for him, also?

_****__It is not his time,_ she prays, and behind her back she clasps her hands the way she has seen him do, _please,keep your priest safe, for everything there is a time, and he is very dear to me. It is not his time._

**** After another moment she nods, and the rite is ended, and she feels a sense of … peace, almost, or at least hope settle on her shoulders. Hope is more dangerous than despair, she knows, but she cannot keep the flutterings away. Surely the gods will listen, surely they are merciful to the combined pleas of the village.

 Siggy, her face gaunt with grief and her eyes red with tears and exhaustion, greets her with a desolate nod as she re-enters the hall of the sick. Siggy has said little in the hours since her daughter’s death, has only sat, silent and dumb with shock, after they had taken the body away.

**** Lagertha goes to Gyda, first. She is no better or worse, but whimpers slightly at her touch. Lagertha presses a kiss to her own daughter’s forehead, quieting her unrest.

**** Athelstan is pale and drawn, cold sweat lining his brow and soaking his blankets. She kneels next to him, clasps his hand and with her other draws the little piece of metal from within his shirt. She squeezes it in her palm and leaves it there, exposed, like a beacon for his god to find and protect him even so far from his old home.

**** She spends the hours till dawn alternating between their sides, bathing them with cold cloths and whispering pleas and exhortations into the darkness.

**** Gyda’s fever breaks as the sun rises over the horizon, and Lagertha knows her prayer was heard.  She weeps quiet tears, clutching Gyda to her chest and stroking her hair with a shaking hand. Her relief is interrupted only once, and it only doubles when she looks up to see Athelstan weakly leaning towards them, his own face devoid of sickly pallor and his eyes clear. He crawls closer, still weak, and lays his palm on Gyda’s forehead which no longer burns with heat.

**** Lagertha is consumed with joy, and tears spill down her cheeks as she looks at them both alive and she cannot help but praise every possible god she knows. Athelstan’s face is also full of joy, his smile wavering as if he too is holding back his tears, and she cannot help it - she pulls him too her and kisses him full on the mouth, for he is alive. Her fear - loneliness, isolated without her husband or son and her family dying around her - it is no longer any fear at all.

**** Athelstan jolts with surprise and as she pulls back she has to laugh at the bewildered expression on his face. He doesn’t say anything, instead moving closer to sit with her, and his mouth moves in words she knows are prayers to his god, prayers of thanks, and she wishes she knew the words so she might join him.

* * *

 They burn the bodies of the dead that morning, wasting no time in removing the blight of plague from the village. The majority of the sick are recovering, at various speeds, but no more have died in the night and the atmosphere among the people is one of cautious hope. Athelstan is among the strongest, his fever retreating and his strength returning in bursts as he eats ravenously.

**** He stands with the rest in the centre to witness it. Lagertha, stoic and full of solemn beauty, lights the pyres and stands, slightly removed from the rest, as they billow smoke and the souls of the dead away into the sky. He thinks she’s never looked more beautiful than in the cold light of the weak sun.

**** He says his own requiem. Many of the dead are people he had grown to know and to respect, and he quietly asks God to watch over them, whatever may happen in death.

**** Gyda is still very weak - her small body frail and her voice very tiny. He sits by her side like a sentinel, clutching her hand and repeating endless pater nosters and gloria patris and when she drifts awake from her restful sleep he smiles and brings her water and food.

**** No one works harder at helping the remaining sick than Lagertha. She is like a benevolent angel, he thinks, endlessly gentle and patient with the people, as though they are all her children.

**** But when he sees her sway, slightly, when she stands, he realises she must take care of herself, too. Gyda is asleep, so he pushes himself to his feet, and makes his way over to where she is leaning against a wooden beam. She starts when he puts a hand on her arm.

**** “You must rest, my lady,” he says, but she shakes her head.

****"**** I cannot,” she says, “I promised I would do anything for them, I must keep my word to the gods.”

**** “You are doing all you can,” he argues gently. “You will tire yourself out. The people need your strength to be their strength, you will lead them out of the darkness and into the light again.”

**** She nods, once, and lets him guide her out of the large hall towards the Earl’s house. He is surprised that she lets him help her, it must be a sign of her exhaustion. Lagertha is not one for outward signs of weakness, and it is only once they’re out of view of the townspeople that she sags, letting out a heavy sigh and swiping a hand over her face.

**** “To the bed,” he urges, “you must sleep.”

**** She nods, and collapses onto the furs in a graceless move. Athelstan moves to go fetch a glass of water, but before he can turn, her eyes open and she says “No - don’t go.”

**** “I meant only to find you a drink,” he says.

**** “Do not go,” she repeats, “I fear if I close my eyes it will be a dream and I will wake to find you both dead, and I could not bear it.”

**** Awkwardly, Athelstan hovers by the bedside. This causes Lagertha to smile, and she reaches a hand out to him to tug at his shirt. “You must also rest,” she says. “Come, sleep.”

**** “I -” he says, and he thinks of her mouth on his. But that was only joy. “I - I ought not,” he stammers.

**** Even in her weariness Lagertha finds the strength to roll her eyes. “Must I command you?” She asks in an exasperated tone. “It would please me to not be alone.”

**** Her gaze is heavy and he cannot deny her the comfort.

**** “Of course, my lady,” he says, and he lies down on the bed next to her. She sighs softly and is asleep in moments.

**** When Lagertha awakes, several hours later, she finds herself with an armful of priest. It is not a bad way to wake up, she thinks, blinking down at the peacefully sleeping man. Apparently his inhibitions did not extend into unconsciousness.

**** Smiling fondly, she kisses his temple softly and slides out of the bed. He must also have been exhausted; even if his recovery seemed quick the illness had wiped him out. She would leave him to sleep. It was time to restore some semblance of order to the lives of the people. He was right, in saying they would look to her for strength. She would be strong for them, and for Athelstan, and for Ragnar, who would surely return soon.

**** The seer’s words echo in her head, and she pauses for a moment. Perhaps the danger was over? Had it passed with the end of the sickness, or were more horrors lurking for her?

**** It would not do to dwell, she decides, and goes off to find things to busy herself with.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so like i posted on the meme, i'm not trying to villify ragnar too much? lagertha knows he is ambitious and not always faithful, but i want to focus more on how she will not have any of that shit, and how she is hurt but not broken by the betrayal. she's not gonna be crying and sobbing, but she's upset about it, of course.
> 
> if that makes sense?

****

Time heals all wounds, but Lagertha wonders if Siggy will ever smile again. The woman is a shell, gaunt and hollow inside. It is as if she died with her daughter. Lagertha thinks she understands, maybe. How much death can one woman withstand, before she becomes nothing more than a skeleton?

A week after their sacrificial plea she holds another ceremony, this time in thanks for the gods’ swift answer. Gyda weaves a dozen floral wreaths, her happiness contagious. Gyda places one around Athelstan’s head and giggles, before donning another herself. They burn the floral wreaths and sacrifice another animal, and the mood of the rite is as opposite as can be. People are happy; the last of the sick have recovered, the sun shines bright and sparkles on the water.

Siggy does not come to this celebration. Lagertha cannot blame her.

The other woman does not, at least, seem to begrudge Lagertha her own family. Siggy and Athelstan take turns watching over Gyda while Lagertha deals with the return to everyday affairs. Siggy continues Gyda’s lessons in sewing and weaving, though every once in awhile Lagertha catches her wiping away tears and pretends not to notice, though her heart is heavy with sympathy.

But despite her apparent happiness, the shadows remain in the corners of her mind, and she worries. She does not show it, and only at night does she indulge the fears. They creep up and she lies awake, wondering at what danger Ragnar is in. Is it from within or is it external?

Athelstan, after that first night, sleeps by her side and seems to double his attentiveness. Something seems to have changed, though she cannot place what. He does not shy away from her touch any more. Lagertha finds comfort in his presence. She wakes in the night from nightmares of piles of dead bodies, all with familiar faces, and turns seeking comfort from Ragnar, only to remember he is gone. But Athelstan squeezes her hand and she thinks it is not so bad, and he will be back soon.

Three weeks after the end of the plague they hear word of Ragnar. She has been praying for his safety and his swift return, for that would be the summit of her relief, the proof that the seer’s words were unfounded.

A man passing through the village says he had also passed a group of travelers, one of whom was Ragnar. He will return in three days, the man tells them. Lagertha sleeps easier, knowing he is unharmed.

* * *

Athelstan is awoken by the sound of commotion from outside. He yawns and stretches, realises this can only be the return of the long awaited travelers, and hurries to his feet.

Ever since Uppsala, he has been wary of Ragnar. There had been no explanation for his plan to sacrifice Athelstan, to have him ritually murdered. Ragnar had laughed off his angry inquiries, and Athelstan is left wondering if it had been a joke. If so, he does not find it particularly funny. Ragnar has never been outright cruel to him, if harsh and authoritative. The change had set in, he decides, rinsing his face in a bowl of water, when the raiders had returned from England, and Ragnar had been told of Lagertha’s loss.

Athelstan goes out into the morning light and watches as the group rides back into the town. The mood of the men (and, Athelstan thinks, a woman?) is less joyous than he would have anticipated. Perhaps something has gone wrong. It would be a blow to everyone’s (Lagertha’s) combined spirits if ill news was all that returned from King Horik’s endeavour.

Ragnar is first to dismount, and Athelstan realises he was correct - there is a woman also seated on his horse. She is someone he has never seen before, with a beguiling smile and long brown hair.

“Athelstan! Have you no greeting your for master?” Ragnar calls after a moment of silence.

“I am pleased you’ve returned unharmed,” Athelstan says carefully. “I hope your business was successful?”

“I’m afraid it was anything but,” Ragnar says with a laugh, “but we will save the matters of business for later. How has the village fared in my absence?”

He does not ask after Lagertha, Athelstan notes.

“We have endured some hardships, my lord,” he replies. “A plague swept through the land not long after our return from Uppsala, and its toll was high. Gyda was struck ill, but has since recovered fully. I, too, was near death.”

Ragnar’s face, which had darkened at the news of Gyda’s illness, clears slightly, but he remains somber. “We had heard some small word of such a thing while at King Horik’s court, but I had hoped it would not reach all the way to my lands.”

“Is my mother alright, priest?” Bjorn asks, appearing from behind his father. “And where is Gyda, I will see her and judge her health for myself.”

Athelstan hides a grin. “Lagertha sleeps, and Gyda as well. They are both in the house, as you might expect.”

Bjorn brushes past him to run indoors. Ragnar remains standing outside, his casual nonchalance grating at Athelstan’s nerve. Something is off in the air, an incalculable shift he is not sure he wants to decipher.

Behind Ragnar the rest of the men have dismounted and begin to unload the horses. Athelstan spies Floki’s bright eyes, but cannot find Rollo’s dark head amongst the group.

“Your brother, my lord, has he not returned with you?” He asks lightly, and Ragnar’s face darkens menacingly.

“He has not,” he replies, very tensely. “Rollo has... revealed his true allegiances, it would seem.”

“I... see,” Athelstan says. He does not question this.

“Papa!” comes Gyda’s voice from behind him, and the girl comes to stand beside Athelstan and smiles up at her father. The three weeks have given her almost all her health back, the roundness returning to her cheeks.

Ragnar smiles and holds out his arms and Gyda embraces him fervently. “I missed you.”

Their reunion is cut short when the woman from his horse comes closer, and stands far too casually next to Ragnar. Her eyes are very sharp. Athelstan thinks there is little this woman does not see.

Gyda falls back, wary of the stranger.

“And who is this?”

Lagertha stands in the doorway. Bjorn comes to stand beside her, glaring daggers at both his father and the woman. Athelstan’s heart sinks. He pulls Gyda away out of the centre of this apparent confrontation. The girl can sense the tension, and she blinks at her parents with wide eyes.

“This is the Princess Aslaug,” Ragnar says, and the tone of his voice is altered enough that Athelstan can hear the challenge and the arrogance. “Daughter of the shieldmaiden Brynhildr.”

“It is good to meet you,” Lagertha says, sparing only the smallest glance at the woman. “And what is she doing here, husband?”

At this question, Ragnar’s bravado seems to falter. “Perhaps we ought to discuss this... indoors.”

“What is there to discuss, my love?” Lagertha’s voice is cold as ice.

“I am with child,” Aslaug says. “Ragnar is the father.”

* * *

The story comes in bits and pieces. Lagertha listens as he tells her of the journey to Jarl Borg, and the impossible task he was given. She feels betrayal as he tells of Rollo’s defection, of King Horik’s decision to battle over the stolen lands. Ragnar is to return to him and aid in battle with men from the surrounding villages. He and Horik will fight Borg, and his brother Rollo.

Aslaug sits beside Ragnar as they speak, one hand resting on her stomach, the other on Ragnar’s arm.

“Odin has promised me sons,” Ragnar says, “and Aslaug will grant me them.”

“I see no reason why this woman is more capable than I,” Lagertha says. Her tone betrays none of the swirling feelings inside her. Anger, sorrow, humiliation. Confusion.

“The gods have given their opinion on that matter, that much is clear to me,” Ragnar says, as though it is a finality.

“And you think that losing one - my losing the life inside me, it means I am somehow cursed? After all this, suddenly I am not good enough for you?” She wants to laugh. Where is the man who asked her to join him in battle? She saved his life, and he thinks her unworthy.

“I must have my sons,” he says, as though that is the end of the matter.

“And what of the village?” She will save her anger for when Aslaug is not sitting there, listening to every word. “We lost many men and women to the plague that struck us. Your own daughter lay on death’s door and you seem very … unconcerned. Do you plan to steal away my remaining men to fight your battles in the East?

“King Horik has given me leave to allow you to rule in my stead, as you have done.”

“The King is so kind and generous,” Lagertha says. “I am honored by his _permission_.”

Ragnar flounders for a moment in the face of her contained ire. He is used to her yelling, she thinks. Or trying to fight him. She instead sits, projecting the calmest of exteriors as every nightmare she has had over the past month becomes a chilling reality.

“The King wishes me to join him for as long as it might take to defeat the men of Gotland. I would trust no one else with the ruling of my people.”

“Why should I do this for you?” It’s not a real question; Lagertha cares for these people and would like nothing more than to continue to rule them with her best judgements. “What do I owe you, now, my husband?”

Ragnar sighs and his shoulders sag. “I … do you want me to divorce you?”

“Do you intend to?”

“I intend to take Aslaug back with me to Horik’s court. She is carrying my son. I will do what you find most acceptable.” Ragnar’s piercing gaze meets hers, and some of Lagertha’s iciness melts. She loves this man, despite his betrayal, and she can see the same emotion reflected in his eyes. It is not cruelty that causes him to hurt her so, but desperation. Ambition.

“You will name me Earl Lagertha in your place. We will no longer be married,” She says. In a softer voice: “I love you, but you are not welcome in this house any longer.”

She strides out of the room on steady legs, though inside she feels she might crumble.

* * *

 

Athelstan finds Bjorn angrily practicing in the training yard, swinging his blade and huffing.

“What do you want, priest?” He asks, when he stills long enough to notice Athelstan’s arrival. “Leave me be or I’ll cut your head off.”

Bjorn’s blustering is fueled by upset, Athelstan can tell. He says nothing in reply, and eventually Bjorn sighs, letting his shield and sword fall to the ground.

“I will not go back with him,” he says, glaring defiantly. “I want no part in my father’s actions, now.”

“Perhaps you ought to tell Lagertha,” Athelstan suggests.

“I - I don’t want her to be upset,” the boy says, suddenly looking ashamed. “She will not be pleased by this news, I would not know what to say. If she were - upset.”

Athelstan understands. He does not know what to say to the woman, though his heart aches to think of a way to comfort her. She’d strode past him, silent and unwavering, but he could see her lip trembling with anger or pain or both.

“You should go to her.” Bjorn says suddenly. “I will tell my father I am staying here, with her.”

 Athelstan finds Lagertha standing by the water, gazing out across the vast expanse. Her cheeks are wet, glistening dimly, but she does not sob, or wail. She turns at the sound of his feet, and her eyes seem more empty than he can remember.

“I don’t know what to do, Athelstan,” she confides. He reaches out, making to touch her arm, comfort her in some way. He feels completely inadequate in the face of her need. “Did I do something to deserve this? Have I angered all the gods in some way, that they would mock me so cruelly?”

Athelstan shakes his head. “No, my lady, you are not at fault.”

Lagertha heaves a heavy sigh. “No, I suppose that would be too easy.”

“What will you do?”

“Move forward. What else is there?”

* * *

****

Ragnar and Lagertha stand in the centre of their bedroom. She is on one side of the bed, Ragnar on the other.

Athelstan stands with the witnesses, but not among them. As he has never technically been freed, he cannot serve as a witness to this. Floki, Siggy, and two others from Kattegat are there, as are Bjorn and Gyda, who presses herself against his side. They look solemn and sad.

“I divorce you, Ragnar Lothbrok,” Lagertha says, “for you no longer make me happy, and you no longer honor our marriage.”

Ragnar repeats the words.

They move to the doorway of the house, and repeat the words.

Finally, they stand in the center of the town, and a crowd gathers.

Lagertha’s voice is strong and firm, and she does not waver as for a third time, she renounces her husband.

Athelstan can only watch, and wait. The have already had a ceremony whereby the people accepted Lagertha as their Earl - truly, some even seemed glad for it. Many men and women had come up after the ceremony, when Lagertha sat alone in the high seat, to thank her for her actions during the plague, and for her kind and just rulings over their families.

In fact, it is Ragnar who seems out of place now, even in this town where he had once ruled over the people happily. Aslaug follows him, and Floki, but there is a current of confusion and unhappiness. Why would Earl Ragnar leave so soon after returning, when the town is fragile from sickness? Even his explanation of warfare to the East had brought no real sympathy. Warriors had agreed to join him, and tearful goodbyes had been said.

The divorce was the final connection, and it, too was now complete.

 


End file.
